


Take it Off

by rebeldesigns (rebeldesire)



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-02
Updated: 2010-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebeldesire/pseuds/rebeldesigns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon/Bonnie. "There’s no grace period, no respectable allotment of time before she feels like she can maintain both pride and dignity by feeling attracted towards the man who almost killed her." Nine-shot based on the iPod shuffle challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take it Off

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Don’t own The Vampire Diaries, nor any recognizable characters.

**001\. PSYCHO [Puddle of Mudd]**

He loves playing mind games with her.

Okay, so maybe it’s a little borderline sociopathic to tease her like he does, but after all, it is the patented Damon Salvatore way. Standing outside of her bedroom window with a huge circa-80s boombox with speakers blaring “In Your Eyes” until she gives up and comes down to shut him up is, admittedly, _very_ fucking amusing. But it loses its charm after the third night.

She still hasn’t invited him in.

So he comes back, night after night, in the hopes that she will.

 

**002\. TAKE IT OFF [Ke$ha]**

She undresses him with her eyes.

She’s a safe distance away, waiting by her Prius for Elena, but his effect on her body is just as potent. As she watches him lean against the railing of the parking lot and chat Elena up, Bonnie casts her eyes down and assesses her predicament. It’s not something she can help, even if she tried. It would be fighting against every estrogen-laced fiber of her being not to react to the way that he is just _so_ … _distinctly_ … **male**. Not only that, it would be a crime. It _should_ be a crime. Damon Salvatore is like a scorching sun, and she is the planet orbiting closer and closer to his heat. He just has that way about him, the manner that oozes sex and screams raw danger. Elena and Caroline certainly caught onto it long before she ever did. Before the attack she never even gave him a second glance. But now that he’s on her radar, she can’t _stop_ thinking about him… and how much better he would look if divulged of all his clothing. What’s disturbing is the fact that it’s only been, like, two weeks since he’s tried to kill her. There’s no grace period, no respectable allotment of time before she feels like she can maintain both pride and dignity by feeling attracted towards the man who almost killed her.

She would peel off that leather jacket first. She can imagine what it smells like, all rich and musky and _Damon_ -scented. She can’t suppress a shiver of delight at this thought. The leather looks soft, worn and scarred from years of use, hanging on his lean frame like a lover as he leans forward and mutters something into Elena’s ear. It’s very unlike the elder Salvatore to get attached to things, especially when, as a vampire, life should seem so ephemeral. But it’s obvious that he’s attached to this jacket, which looks like it could be circa 60s biker gang. It’s practically an antique.

All the more reason to slide it off those broad shoulders of his.

Next, she would head for his shirt. He usually wears those black, skintight muscle tees that tease at the broad expanse of chest and abdomen… perfect for tearing in two with her bare hands before she trails her fingers down his flat stomach. Today, however, Damon is wearing a white tee shirt, the color of which only accentuates the paleness of his skin, the vividness of his azure eyes.

His belt and pants would follow next. Useless items of clothing, really. Bonnie bites her lip and her breath hitches as she eyes the oblivious elder Salvatore brother through heavy-lidded eyes. The real question of the day is whether Damon Salvatore wore boxers… or briefs.

**_Boxer-briefs, actually_ ,** a snide voice invades her thoughts and Bonnie lets out an audible shriek that has passers-by staring oddly at her as they walk to their cars or sports practice. She is forcibly jarred from her daydream as the one person, the only person in the world who she _doesn’t, not-in-a- million-fucking-years_ want to have access to her thoughts has just hacked her brainwaves like NORAD.

She resists the urge to look sharply up at him from where she’s standing, instead settling for gazing contemplatively down at her Steve Madden boots. Faintly, through the haze of humiliation, Bonnie wonders if there’s a magic spell for blending into the pavement beneath her feet. That’s just _great_. Damon Salvatore can read her thoughts like an open book. So much for a little thing called privacy. “Fuck me,” Bonnie whispers to herself, surprise currently blanketing any sense of mortification.

**_Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, little witch?_** His words trace across her mind like a cold caress, making her shiver involuntarily. **_So, tell me,_ ** Damon’s voice is so amused that it makes Bonnie grind her teeth into her cheek, _**Do you think about visually molesting guys often, or is this a more… recent hobby?**_

Bonnie’s jaw drops, and she is rewarded with a trademark shit-eating grin and a wink as Damon pauses in his conversation with Elena to look over to where she’s standing. She sends him a glare in return but he only turns back to Elena, saying something that looks like a dismissal. Elena nods, then turns on her heel and heads back to Bonnie, whose cheeks are now so flush with embarrassment that she is sure they are giving off their own heat signature. Her eyes trail Damon’s steps as he makes his way back to his stupid muscle car. Gunning his engine, he peels out of the parking lot without a backward glance in her direction. Who the hell does he think he is?

“Bonnie? You ready?” Elena’s sweet voice interrupts Bonnie mid-mental tirade. Bonnie is so preoccupied that she forgets to question Elena about why she is meeting Damon Salvatore in their high school parking lot in the first place.

Instead, she realizes she got her answer.

Boxer-briefs... Bonnie hides her chuckle behind a cough and starts the car.

 

**003\. LET’S GET IT STARTED [Black Eyed Peas]**

Damon walks into the club and heads straight for the bar. It’s ten past eleven and he wants to try his hand at getting completely and utterly trashed. True, it’s a futile effort, really; as a vampire he could drink a sea of bourbon and not even trip over his shoelaces on his way out. But it’s the thought that counts.

Motioning to the bartender that he wants the heaviest, most burning alcoholic beverage that is legal to sell in the Union, Damon slouches over the bar counter and allows his dark locks to obscure his face. While he waits for his drink, he simply concentrates on trying to tune out the pulsing, obnoxiously loud music pumping through the sound system as the bodies writhe on the dance floor in time to the beat. The song is the same bass-heavy trash they’ve been putting out for the past fifteen years, and if Damon could feel emotion he would be saddened by the current state of the music industry at the hands of Lady Gaga and those 3OH-whatevers. Damon sniffs disparagingly, allowing his gaze to trail lazily over the sea of sweating humans, searching for tonight’s dinner. In a place like this, it is all too easy. His eye falls on one girl who looks particularly into the music. Her long tresses fan in an arc around her body as she tosses her head back and sashays to the beat, her hips and ass swaying sinuously to the rhythm of the synth-laden song. Her actions have drawn a small crowd of admirers. Damon watches in amusement as several men (and some women) saunter up to the girl and try to dance with her; she expertly navigates away from those interested without even missing a step. Even in the dark, Damon can appreciate her lithe form, the way her body instinctively rises and falls in time with the music, as if the song is a part of her body and her body a part of the song. Cocking his head to the side, Damon narrows his eyes as he tries to catch the girl’s face, which is obscured by the other dancers on the floor.

_So familiar._

His tequila is left untouched on the bar as he drops a twenty and stalks his way over to the dance floor. The strobe lighting and booming music are doing a number to his highly tuned senses, but he ignores his discomfort as he pushes his way through the crowd towards _her._ Subconsciously, he recognizes her movements, graceful and elegant, like a cat’s. But… he doesn’t want to believe it, not until he sees her face with his own two eyes.

The crowd parts as he makes his way to the girl, instinctively sensing that it would be in the best interests of their health if they do not stand between a predator and his prey. Damon’s eyes are dark, half-lidded with a ravenous gleam that leaves no question as to what his intentions truly are. The girl’s back is still facing him, so Damon takes advantage of the opportunity to sidle up behind her and wrap his strong arm around her waist before dragging her body roughly against his. The girl lets out a surprised and disgruntled yelp as she loses balance and her body slams against him, but plays along as Damon curves his hips against hers, rocking side to side in the ages-old rhythm between man and woman.

“I’m not interested,” she shouts flatly over the music, squirming against him in a delightful way. Damon curves another hand around her waist, tracing the outline of her leather-clad hips even as she tries to pry herself out of his grip. He lowers his nose to the skin of her neck, damp with perspiration and pheromones and magic. It’s an intoxicating cocktail and Damon smiles against her shoulder, barely resisting the urge to bite down, hard, right here in front of everyone.

“How did you get in without an I.D.?” Damon murmurs against her ear, and he feels her stiffen against him. Her pulse beats erratically in her throat and Damon inhales deeply, scenting her fear and reveling in it. She recognizes his voice.

Bonnie’s eyes are wide with alarm as she swivels on her heel to face him. “You,” she hisses, her angry words laced with panic as she frantically eyes the exits. She shoves him, hard, the effectiveness of which akin to shoving a brick wall. “Get away from me,” she growls, and Damon smirks as she pummels him again, without the least effect.

“Now, Bonnie,” Damon adopts the condescending tone that he reserves for her, only for her. “What did we say about manners? Hmm?”

“Oh, you mean the part where you shove your manners up your ass?” Bonnie laughs without mirth, crossing her arms and staring him down. “I seem to remember that conversation.”

Damon clutches his chest, fake pout not quite reaching his eyes, which are glittering with mirth and bloodlust. “Oh, your words, Bon Bon. They wound me so,” Damon rolls his eyes and drops the act, and with lightning quick reflexes grabs Bonnie’s wrists and drags her close against him. “Seriously, what are you doing here? How’d you get in?” He has no idea why he is so curious, but for some reason the mystery is gnawing away at him.

Bonnie snorts, and a cockiness he had never seen in the little witch lights up her eyes. “I can do more than just set things on fire with my mind, Damon.” Damon raises an eyebrow, bemused. Bonnie sighs. “They’re called _boobs_ , Damon. Maybe you’ve heard of them? They’re like a golden ticket for the underaged.”

Damon’s eyes fall to said area of her body with a contemplative look, earning him a disgusted punch to the shoulder. “I’m out of here,” Bonnie mutters, turning to go, but Damon’s hands are still encircling her wrists. Bonnie eyes her captive wrists, then Damon, calculating the situation.

“I _can_ hurt you, you know.” Bonnie calls over the music resignedly.

“You still owe me that dance, Bennett,” Damon shouts back, pulling her closer still until she stands flush against his hips. And then he smiles, a carefree, no-holds-barred smile and she’s lost in it, even though she knows that when Damon smiles like this there’s always a catch. But _God_ if he isn’t beautiful when he smiles.

“Yeah,” Bonnie smirks back, grabbing him by the waistband and rocking against him in time to the beat. “I guess I do owe you that much.”

She leans into him and he accepts, bowing his neck until his mouth hovers over her pulse. They sway back and forth in their spot, bodies too in sync to be unfamiliar with one another. “I thought you wouldn’t show,” he murmurs into the nape of her neck, scraping his incisors along the edge of her throat. “But then I realized that I was seriously underestimating my sex appeal.”

He feels Bonnie’s chuckle beneath his lips and his lips curve into a wicked grin. Old habits die hard. Here, in this place, they can be themselves. Here, in a club where no one would suspect, they can find each other in the dark.

 

**004\. FAME < INFAMY [Fall Out Boy]**

“They’re worried that I’m rubbing off on you,” Damon chuckles, raising a sardonic eyebrow and leaning back onto the grass. He doesn’t bother looking over at the young witch beside him; he can sense her thoughts, floating in a cloudy, indecipherable haze just outside the reach of his consciousness. She’s annoyed.

He doesn’t even have to say their names for Bonnie to know who he’s talking about. “You know, I really _don’t_ give a shit about what Elena thinks sometimes,” Bonnie snaps, and Damon bursts out laughing at this statement, resisting the urge to slow clap.

“Brava, little miss witch. That’s got to be the most unforgiving, yet accurate thing you’ve ever said about Elena in my presence,” Damon smirks, leaning on his elbow as he gazes down at her body. Stars from the night sky above reflect in her eyes, juxtaposing her youthful looks against the wisdom hidden in those emerald depths. They’re lying in the middle of the ‘Falls High soccer field, the smell of freshly mowed grass irritating Bonnie’s nose. She resists the urge to sneeze. Ever since she swapped blood with Damon, her senses have been more attuned to the world around her… and more sensitive.

She smiles quietly and hums, brushing the tips of her fingers along the stiff, cropped tips of the grass blades beneath her. “I just… wish she would stop mothering me, you know?” Bonnie confesses, clutching a blade of grass and plucking it out of the ground to twist in her fingers. “Plus, it’s not of her business who I let rub off on me. And it’s none of _Stefan’s_ business, either.” She finishes pointedly, casting Damon an annoyed look.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Damon replies, giving her an annoyed glare of his own. “It’s not my fault my brother’s an intrusive, brooding dick with raging self-esteem issues.” He allows himself to fall backwards onto the grass with a groan. He probably has gotten grass stains all over the back pockets of his favorite pair of jeans, but he doesn’t really mind, for some reason. They’re just jeans.

“Well, can you blame him? Your reputation _does_ kind of precede you nowadays,” Bonnie reminds him, twisting the glass blade tighter and tighter until it begins to fray at the center. “I mean, how many times have you tried to steal his girlfriend? I’ve lost count.”

Damon raises an eyebrow and tilts his head until it’s facing her. “Is that jealousy I hear in your tone?” he deduces astutely, smirk broadening as Bonnie rolls her eyes and huffs, but doesn’t answer. “Oh em gee,” Damon continues in a perky falsetto, a spot-on impression of Caroline that has Bonnie fighting to keep a straight face, even through her annoyance, “Does that mean, like, you heart me?” He bats his eyelashes at her and grins cheekily.

Bonnie grumbles something under her breath, still eyeing the frayed glass blade that has been destroyed by her wayward grip. “What was that?” Damon coos, cupping his ear and leaning closer to her. “Didn’t quite catch what you just said.”

Bonnie reaches over and swats Damon hard on the shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself."

Damon bursts out laughing and Bonnie smiles inwardly, tossing the decimated grass blade over her shoulder before rolling on top of Damon’s body. Damon accepts the light weight of her on top of him by placing his arms behind his head and gazing up at her patiently.

“So I guess here’s the part where you tell me it’s just physical,” Bonnie wryly intones, both brows raised. She bites her lip, making a show of pondering their situation before leaning down to brush her lips against his. “I say… let’s piss some people off.”

“Gladly,” Damon leans up towards Bonnie’s waiting lips. “But I get to keep the cow that Stefan’s going to have when he finds out the truth about where I go between the hours of eleven and two each night.”

 

**.005 SILVER AND COLD (AFI)**

It’s twisted, this love of theirs. If “love” is even the name of it.

It’s more like a _lust_ , a low, singing feeling that pumps through her veins and pounds in his skull and down low to his groin whenever they make eye contact. It’s the heady scent of hormones and sweat and arousal as they argue, but not with words. It’s the back and forth of their lips, their roaming hands, their frantic body language that does the communicating for them. Underneath the layer of disgust she feels for him and the contempt he feels for her is a thick chunk of confusion saturated in unadulterated _want._ The requirements are simple. His body. Her body. Nothing more, nothing less. No questions… and no clothes.

It’s worked out pretty well so far.

It’s sick, really, the way she keeps coming back to him, like a moth to the flame, even though every minute with him erodes away at her insides like so much battery acid running through her veins. It’s wrong that she should feel this way about a bloodthirsty killer who would just as soon snap her neck as save it, trail his fingers down it, lick his way across it.

It’s just that he’s sick and tired of seeing her face. He’s done with feeling that excited, adrenaline-filled kick when he sees her heading his way. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the scent of the chase and the sight of her skin, covering all those delectable arteries and capillaries running rich with oxygenated blood and plasma; it makes him nearly double over with the force of it as his want ( _his need_ ) hits him. It’s deplorable that, even though he doesn’t have to impress anyone or anything, thank you very fucking much, he tries so _damn hard_ for her. He’s pathetic. He’s weak.

It’s a savage display of dominance when they kiss, a vicious tango that leaves both dancers bruised and battered. It’s pure sadism, the way she bites into his lower lip— sucking and pulling on it as if it’s a piece of candy. He always groans when she does this, a deep, throaty growl that reverberates through the room and only makes her bite harder. He hisses when she draws blood, though not from the pain; she runs her tongue across the shining crimson droplets on his full lower lip, savors the way he watches her with glittering eyes when she bares her teeth at him, incisors colored crimson with his O negative. When he slams her up against the wall and attacks her neck, her cheek, her breasts with his lips and tongue and punishing teeth, he’s sure that she leaves claw marks on his skin. His grip is hard enough to bruise, retaliation for the minimal damage she inflicts on his otherwise perfect body with her blunt nails and surprisingly sharp teeth.

And afterwards, he watches her sleep. Sweeps the wayward curls off her face and tucks them behind her ear with a gentleness that belies his nature.

He becomes her even as she becomes him.

This love of theirs, it’s twisted.

 

**.006 THE REASON [Hoobastank]**

They’re not officially dating. The whole boyfriend-girlfriend bullshit was something that Damon acquired cynicism for quite a long time ago, give or take a century.

So it really shouldn’t hurt when she tells him that they shouldn’t see each other anymore. It shouldn’t even surprise him. He’s never been boyfriend material. But still.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Damon doesn’t know whether to be impressed or pissed at the nonchalant way she neatly wraps up the loose ends of their relationship with a simple sentence, “I’m not Katherine or Elena, Damon, and I never will be.” She kisses him lightly on the cheek and tosses him a smile. And then she’s out of his life, just like that.

“And I don’t ever want you to be,” he calls after her, angry and confused and frustrated and bitter all at once.

But she doesn’t hear him. She’s already gone.

 

**.007 UNTIL THE END [Breaking Benjamin]**

She’s his.

Pure and goddamn simple.

“Get your fucking face off of her,” Damon snarls, tearing open the Prius’ door and bodily throwing the guy from the passenger’s seat. He can faintly hear Bonnie screaming in the background, but all he can hear is the thudding of his blood pounding a sinister beat in his ears.

Damon surveys the guy he just jettisoned out of Bonnie’s car, a dark smirk curling across his face like the inky tendrils of black smoke. With superhuman speed, he grabs the astounded guy by the collar and rams him against the side of the car, rocking the hybrid forcefully before it settles again on its wheels.

He doesn’t kill him. Something stops him from ripping the teen’s head from his shoulders, and instead he tightens his hold around the kid’s collar and growls, “Leave. And don’t ever think a frigging thought about her again. Or I find you, and I will kill you.” _And then eat you._

He doesn’t say that part aloud, of course.

The kid is all but a sobbing, blubbering mess as he trips his way away from the parking lot, not even looking back to check to see if Bonnie is alright. _Typical._ Even seventeen-year-old linebackers for the Mystic Falls Varsity football team cry like little girls under threat of getting their bowels ripped out through their nostrils.

“What the hell, Damon?!” Bonnie screams at him, voice so shrill it could probably shatter glass, and Damon almost laughs out loud because holy _fuck_ , it’s good to hear her voice again. Plus, she looks sexy as hell when she’s pissed off at him.

“You don’t call, you don’t write,” Damon pouts, eyes cast demurely downwards as he leans against the hood of her hybrid. “I had to get your attention _somehow_. Besides, I’m doing you a favor. His thoughts about you were _definitely_ not PG, if you know what I mean.” He confides in a stage whisper.

It doesn’t hurt when she slaps him. In fact, it probably hurt _her_ more than it hurt him, if her contorted expression of pain is anything to judge by after she lands the blow. She hisses and cradles her right hand, turning away from him to nurse her pain in solitude. “What are you doing here, Damon?” she tries again, more quietly this time.

“I think the better question is, what are _you_ doing here, little witch?” he jabs an accusatory finger in her direction, half a smile arcing his lips… yet the emotion doesn’t quite reach his cold eyes.

Bonnie snorts, wincing as she opens and closes her hands experimentally. “What did it _look_ like I was doing, Damon? Isn’t this what you refer to as, ‘getting ass?’” She rolls her eyes and begins to make her way back to her car. “We’re done here.”

He manages to get there before her and blocks her way to the door. “Hey, come on, Bonnie,” he wheedles, charm oozing out of every pore. “Don’t say you don’t miss it. Not even a little?” He leans over and brushes a stray wisp of hair out of her face and frowns when she recoils from his touch.

“Yes, I do,” Bonnie sighs, looking balefully at him and rummaging around for her keys in her jeans pocket. “But that’s _exactly_ why we have to stop doing what we’re doing.”

Damon blinks, surprised. “I’m… not quite sure I follow, Bonfire. If it looks good, feels good, tastes good… isn’t it supposed to be, well, _good_?” He quickly closes the distance between them and curves a hand around her waist. “C’mon, Bonnie. Let’s go for a drive.” He points behind him to the car that’s parked by the treeline behind them. _Stefan’s_ sports car, to be precise. Bonnie fixes him with a look that he can’t quite translate.

Sometimes he wishes he could read that inscrutable mind of hers, find some way to convince her that his intentions were, like, 80 percent honorable. Okay, maybe closer to 73 percent. But apparently his powers of persuasion were hardier than they appeared, because Bonnie sighed and closed her eyes, nodding. Cake, piece of.

“One drive, Damon,” she agrees, surprising them both. “And it had better be damn worth it because that guy you just ejected from my back seat was D.J. Anders. He’s older and he’s smoking hot and extremely nice, and so far you’re only 2 for 3 against this guy.”

“You think I’m smoking hot?”

“Get in the car, Damon,” Bonnie grumbles as she spins on her heel and stalks towards his car.

 

**.008 SHUT UP AND DRIVE [Rihanna]**

If Damon were a drug, he’d be speed. And she’d do him in a second.

No pun intended.

His Audi roars as he shifts into fifth gear. The top’s down and Bonnie tears the elastic band out of her hair, throwing it behind her. She lets out a squeal of delight as the car hugs a tight corner and whips around the other side, the centripetal motion causing her to get faintly dizzy. The rush… it’s intoxicating.

Biting her lip, Bonnie chances a glance at the driver next to her. He’s watching her.

“Watch the road!” Bonnie shrieks, but even as she does so he effortlessly turns a corner without a glance at the road ahead of them.

“How do you do that?” Bonnie yells over the roar of the V8 and the whipping wind.

“Do what?” Damon calls back laconically.

“Drive without looking?” Bonnie shouts, genuinely curious.

“Magic,” Damon replies sarcastically, blowing his way through a stop sign. “What do you think, Bonnie? I’m a vampire.”

“Well, it’s making me nervous,” Bonnie says, although it’s totally a lie and he knows it. She loves it.

“Do you trust me, Bonnie?” Damon asks suddenly, voice low and serious.

_Yes._ “No,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Why should I? Give me a reason.”

“Well, I trust you,” Damon says turning away from her and fixing his eyes on the road.

And suddenly, for Bonnie, that’s reason enough to trust Damon Salvatore.

 

**.009 GIVEN UP [Linkin Park]**

“What about Stefan? Elena?” Bonnie questions, eyes wide. “ _Katherine_?”

He stops pacing.

The name is still painful to him, even after all these years. But somehow, it hurts so much less when he’s around her.

“Bonnie,” Damon says carefully, seriously. He sets his book down on the counter and glides over to where she’s standing, looking all perky and distressed in that unbearably adorable way she has that makes Damon want to do all sorts of inappropriate things.

“What _about_ Stefan and Elena? And Katherine?” He stumbles over _her_ name a bit but if Bonnie notices, she doesn’t say anything. “Fuck ‘em. You do realize that the whole world could get blown to shit and I wouldn’t care, as long as… ugh,” Damon groans when he realizes where he’s going and runs a hand over his face. This sappy load is _so_ much more Stefan’s territory. He squints down at Bonnie, who’s wearing an expression that’s a mixture of amusement and apprehension. “Do I _really_ need to finish that sentence?” he whines, curling his lip in disgust.

Bonnie nods, small smile lighting her face up like a Christmas tree and damn, damn, damn... because Damon sucks at this bullshit. He sighs, smiling slightly in response to her grin as he shakes his head. Bowing his head, he gently leans his forehead against hers and grumbles, “Whatever happened to, ‘I’m hot, you’re hot, let’s fang and bang’? Or is that off the menu once I profess my ‘undying love and devotion’ to you? Because I am so _not_ doing the whole midnight-Tampax-run, holding-your-purse-when-you-shop-while-trying-to-retain-a-shred-of-my-manly-dignity crap that comes with being in relationships. Ask Stefan, he’d know. I had to revoke his Man-card during their two-month anniversary.”

Bonnie giggles and raises her gaze to his. He stifles a snort because, in such proximity, she looks slightly cross-eyed as she speaks. “You’re an asshole.”

“Fact of life, babe,” Damon winks down at her and pecks her lightly before smacking her hard on the ass. She lets out a shocked exclamation and he smirks cheekily before settling in for a slow kiss.

He could get used to this, he really could.


End file.
